


The Prince and the Forest

by riventhorn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst and Feels, Canon Era, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:32:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13569720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: Arthur wanders into a fairy ring in the forest and gets turned back into a thirteen-year old boy





	The Prince and the Forest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MarauderIvy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarauderIvy/gifts).



> I haven't written a Merlin fic in years--it was fun to spend time with them again.
> 
> For marauderivy, who requested a de-aged Arthur fic. Sorry it's so short, but I knew otherwise I'd never get it done!

In Ealdor, in the springtime, everything grew muddy and chilly. The wind bit one’s ears and fogs lurked by the riverbank. But in Camelot, Merlin discovered, springtime meant a softening of the air and little mischievous breezes ruffling his hair. Springtime meant stumbling on tender green shoots pushing out from under last year’s leaves, and blossoms bobbing on the apple trees down in the garden, just visible from a corner of Arthur’s window. Released from winter’s grip, the forest grew impish, eager to play with anyone who wandered into it. 

Arthur, of course, wanted to go into the forest. It wasn’t the season for hunting deer or boar or any of the usual, quotidian birds and beasts. But there was always a chance of stumbling on a cockatrice or manticore or even a small dragon. Merlin reminded Arthur of the perils of interfering with fantastical creatures with pointed reminders of mazes, famines, and unicorns, but Arthur brushed these concerns aside, too eager to be abroad in the warming, welcoming land, tugged at by all the irresistible strings that his kingdom had knotted into his heart. 

Merlin knew those strings were there, even if he had never felt such a way himself. Arthur, with his boundless heart, took in all the life clamoring and growing and dying within Camelot—took it all in and gave himself to it in turn. But for Merlin, there was only one string, woven into a knotted, inescapable net lodged fast around him, and the ends were gathered and held tightly in Arthur’s palm. 

And so, he couldn’t help but feel jealous of the forest that bewitched Arthur so easily and drew him into its shadowed depths like a lover coaxing their heart-mate to bed, even if he knew that in the end, Arthur belonged to that forest and to Camelot itself and could never, ever be Merlin’s alone. 

But Arthur must go, and Merlin must follow—laden with the usual bags and Arthur’s cloak brought in anticipation of rain and an extra quarrel of bolts because one couldn’t take down a cockatrice with one arrow. And perhaps it was because of these burdens that he fell further and further behind Arthur’s steps. The wind laughed at him as it tumbled by and blew Arthur’s hair into a golden tangle that shone brightly for a moment as Arthur paused between two beech trees before stepping sideways and vanishing from Merlin’s view. 

And even though he hurried his pace, the wind pushed against him, fiercer now, strong enough to hold him back and take his breath, and he stumbled suddenly, catching his foot on a tree root and falling to the ground. 

The wind let him go then, satisfied. 

But the mischief had been done, for when he regained his feet and ran after Arthur, he rounded the beech trees to find a grassy hollow before him, circled about with violets and mushrooms. A fairy ring, to be certain. And in the middle, fast asleep, a young boy of perhaps thirteen years, with Arthur’s sunny tangle of hair and the same scar on his left arm that Merlin saw everyday on Arthur’s when he dressed him. 

This, as they said, was a pretty kettle of fish, and Merlin devoted a few bitter thoughts to wayward princes with an insatiable urge to run about the woods killing things. Then he attempted a few spells that had no appreciable effect. Arthur stayed a boy, and he stayed asleep. 

With a huff, Merlin sat on a nearby log. He felt a strange reluctance to go into the fairy ring to retrieve Arthur, even though Arthur’s clothes had vanished along with his stubble and the muscles developed by years of toting around swords and armor in an energetic fashion. The spring day was warm but not that warm, and Arthur would doubtless appreciate his cloak. But an unpleasant, squirming sensation started in his stomach at the thought of entering the fairy ring. So he stayed put and studied the prince in the form of the boy he had once been. 

Arthur was, frankly, a bit pudgy, and his cheeks much rounder. His legs looked too long, and he had a few spots on his chin. Merlin experienced a slight feeling of smug satisfaction that Arthur had once been a gangly, awkward youth too. 

He was still sitting there, beginning to wonder what he would do if Arthur did not wake up by nightfall, when without warning, a pair of blue eyes blinked open, and Arthur sat up with a yawn, revealing his crooked tooth. Then he looked about, clearly confused, and his eyes landed on Merlin.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice high and childish. “And where am I?”

“I’m Merlin,” Merlin said, struck by how Arthur as a boy sounded exactly as imperious as his own Arthur. “And we’re in the forest.”

Arthur plucked a piece of grass and frowned at it. 

“Do you know who _you_ are?” Merlin asked him.

Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it. “No,” he said, surprised. He looked at Merlin again. “Who am I?”

Merlin tilted his head, studying him. Arthur seemed remarkably unperturbed at having no memory of his past, future, or present. While confused, he did not show any signs of fear, rather watching Merlin with a growing air of impatience. 

“Well? Answer me,” Arthur demanded. 

“Your name is Arthur, and you’re a prince.” 

Arthur absorbed this in silence for a moment. “If I’m a prince, then what are you?”

“Your servant.”

“Oh.” Arthur frowned again and scrunched his toes in the grass. 

“Why don’t you come out of there,” Merlin said, and Arthur rose to his feet, swayed unsteadily, and then stumbled out of the fairy ring. He remained a boy, and Merlin smothered a sigh and turned to get out Arthur’s cloak. 

It felt quite strange to be so much taller than Arthur and to have to bend down to wrap the cloak around his shoulders. Arthur accepted it, gathering it about his body, but then declared, “You can’t be a very good servant, if this is how you dress me. I have no hosen and no boots.” 

It was so very like Arthur that Merlin couldn’t help but laugh. 

“I wasn’t expecting you to be enchanted and lose your clothes when we came into the forest today,” he said. 

“Is that what’s happened to me?” 

Merlin nodded. “You should be much older—a full grown man.”

“Am I truly?” Arthur marveled, eyes wide. 

“Do you remember nothing, then?”

Arthur frowned, then shook his head. “Shall I ever turn back again?”

“I should hope so.” Merlin reached out to comb his fingers through Arthur’s hair to try and straighten some of the tangles. “Although you might be easier to manage in this size.”

Arthur put up with this for a few moments and then ducked away, scowling. “What are you going to do then?” 

Merlin sighed and crossed his arms, looking up at the sky. “I’m always the one solving these problems, aren’t I? You wouldn’t believe the trouble you’ve caused me, sire.”

“Well… well, you’re a servant! You’re supposed to look after me!” Arthur retorted, but Merlin could see the worry in his eyes, where there had been none before—the thought that Merlin might leave him there, alone. 

He never wanted Arthur to think that he would abandon him, and so he said, “You’re quite right, my prince. Let’s walk to the north. I know a place that I think will help.”

“A place?”

“Yes.” Merlin touched his shoulder, smiling. “It’s been waiting for you for a while now.”

Arthur trailed after him, so trusting, and Merlin couldn’t help but think that some part of him must remember, must know that Merlin belonged to him and would always guard him from harm. But soon he noticed Arthur wincing, though he tried to hide it and keep a brave face. Merlin glanced down and saw that Arthur was favoring his bare feet, flinching as he stepped on sharp sticks and scratchy pine needles. 

Of course, Arthur had never wanted for any creature comforts as a child. He had always had warm boots and shoes, unlike peasant boys who ran about barefoot in all seasons. Arthur was a soft, sheltered thing in many ways. 

“Here,” Merlin said, crouching down. “This will make it better.”

Under his fingers, bare earth turned to velvet grass and moss, a carpet unrolling across the forest floor.

Arthur gasped. “Is that magic?”

Merlin didn’t answer him, only watched as Arthur touched the grass. Then Arthur looked up at him and gave Merlin a delighted, dazzled smile. 

His heart clenched, and he turned away. “We need to keep moving. We’ve a long way to go.” 

As they walked, Arthur peppered him with questions, wanting to know if he had grown up to be a renowned warrior and how many monsters he had slain and if he had a great destrier. 

“Am I a good prince?” he asked, and Merlin hid a smile. 

“You are not so bad, as princes go.” 

At last, Arthur exhausted the subject of his future glories and grew quiet. Evening was drawing down when a hand slipped into Merlin’s. 

“Is it much farther?” Arthur asked, and he leaned into Merlin’s side. 

“Not far,” Merlin replied, squeezing Arthur’s cold fingers. “You’re tired, aren’t you?”

Arthur nodded. 

“Why don’t we stop here for a bit,” Merlin suggested. “I’ll make a fire, and we can eat something.” 

Arthur did not protest this course of action, and he sat down, cross-legged and well-wrapped in his cloak, while Merlin gathered wood and pinecones. A snap of his fingers kindled a flame that he coaxed into a crackling blaze. Arthur reached out a hand toward the warmth.

When Merlin went to sit down on the opposite side, Arthur frowned and told Merlin that he should sit beside him. “I’m cold, and I shall want my supper.” 

“Of course, your highness,” Merlin said, although their supper consisted of only some meager bread and hard cheese that he had tucked away that morning on the way out the door. 

Arthur ate his portion and then, because he would not—could not, even now—ask for it, Merlin wrapped an arm around his shoulders unbidden. Arthur rested against him with a little sigh. 

“Merlin,” Arthur asked, “what if I stay this way forever?” 

“You won’t. I promise.” 

“If I do… then I can’t be a prince, can I? I can’t fight in a battle or rule a kingdom. I don’t even remember the names of my parents or their faces.”

Merlin reached for one of Arthur’s hands and pressed it into the moist earth. “Do you feel that?”

“Yes. But what—”

“It’s yours. Your land. Your kingdom. And you know it, don’t you? You haven’t been afraid, this entire time, because you recognize Camelot.” _Because you have me,_ he did not say.

Arthur curled his fingers into the dirt. He pressed his mouth into a firm line, determined. 

That was his prince. Merlin felt fiercely, helplessly proud. 

A short while later Arthur fell asleep, his head pillowed in Merlin’s lap. Merlin carefully gathered him in his arms, groaning at the weight but managing to stand. 

“A few less puddings for you, sire,” he murmured as he walked through the forest, small baubles of light scurrying in front of his feet to show the way. 

The stone and the sword materialized out of the dark when they reached the clearing, and Merlin laid Arthur nearby, tucking his coat under Arthur’s head. 

He paused then, one of the lights hovering by Arthur’s face. For a moment, he let himself think on what might have been. If he had known Arthur as a child—if Arthur had grown up unafraid of magic—if he had been there to always offer the affection and comfort that Arthur had learned to live without. 

“It was a cruel trick,” he whispered to the forest, and the wind rattled the branches above him. 

He let the light go out and went to the sword. The hilt was cold and unyielding under his hand, and he took a deep breath, preparing to draw on its power.

*

It was hardly fair to hold a council meeting on a bright blue day in June, Arthur thought, shooting a longing glance out the window over Geoffrey’s head. His father was speaking about grain levies, but he had admittedly lost the thread a while ago, attention caught by a cloud scudding over the sun and the prospect of hawking the next morning. 

He caught sight of Merlin, lolling in the shade by the stables across the courtyard, and frowned. Merlin was supposed to have been polishing his boots and seeing to his armor this past hour, and he’d have a stern word with him later.

Although he wasn’t quite sure why he bothered at this point. He seemed to have grown used to Merlin’s incompetence, and now the other servants’ deferential attitude struck a jarring note—discomforting and strange. 

Of course, Merlin had always had the talent of upsetting any comfortable notions he might have had and giving rise to unsettling feelings. Even that first time they met—there had been something about Merlin, something that he almost recognized, that seemed somehow familiar. And he had wracked his brains, trying to remember if they had met before. But that was impossible, for Merlin came from far away, a peasant who had never before left his village and stared around the town and castle, gaping at the unfamiliar sights. 

But then, Merlin had always been different. So very different from any other servant or person Arthur had known, and yet somehow fitting into place at his side as though a space had always been there, waiting for him to arrive. 

Arthur huffed, slumping back in his chair, and decided that he might share a cup of sweet wine with Merlin at supper to chase away the heat of the day and make Merlin a bit sleepy, so that his fingers would stumble over the laces of Arthur’s tunic, and his hands would linger that much longer, warm and gentle against his skin.


End file.
